Chapter 8 Liam #2
I leaned against the railing. Looked down at the creek. Clear water over smooth stones, the current gentle enough that you could see the bottom.
"This is romantic as fuck for a bridge," I said.
Alex leaned next to me. "You have a way with words."
"I'm serious. This is the most aggressively romantic location I've ever been in. I feel like we're in a movie. There should be music playing."
"There could be. I have my phone."
"Please no, anything but your playlist."
He pulled out his phone and opened the camera.
"Come here," he said.
"What?"
"Just come here."
I stepped close to him and he pulled me in with his other arm.
He held the phone up. Selfie mode. The bridge behind us, the creek below, the light through the slats catching the gold in his hair.
"We don't have any photos together," he said.
He was right. Two weeks of whatever this was—the texts, the stolen moments, the shower, the secret—and there was no evidence. Nothing to prove it was real. Nothing to look at when we were apart and remind ourselves that this was real.
I stepped closer. Put my arm around his shoulder. He leaned into me—natural, automatic, his body fitting against mine like it had been designed to.
"Ready?" he said.
"Do I look okay?"
"You look like you're wearing a fourteen-dollar flannel and you haven't slept in a week."
"So my best."
"Your absolute best."
He took the photo.
We looked at it. Two guys on a bridge. Liam's arm around Alex. Alex leaning into Liam. Both of them grinning—real grins, not performance grins, the kind that come from somewhere you can't fake. The flannel. The bridge. The golden light.
Evidence. The only proof in the world that this existed.
"Send it to me," I said.
He did. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.
Then he looked at me. The phone lowering. His eyes steady. The grin fading into something quieter, warmer, more certain.
He kissed me.
Not desperate. Not stolen. Not rushed. Not in a dorm room with the door locked, not in a shower with the walls echoing, not in a boathouse with one ear listening for footsteps.
Just a kiss. On a bridge. In the daylight. The creek running underneath us and the leaves falling around us.
His mouth was warm. His hand found the side of my face—his palm against my jaw, his thumb on my cheekbone. Gentle. Sure. The way he touched me when there was time, when there was no rush, when nobody was going to walk in.
I pulled him closer. My hands on his waist, the flannel bunching under my grip. He stepped into me and my back found the railing and we were pressed together—chest to chest, mouth to mouth, the full length of our bodies touching with nothing between us but clothes and cold air.
The kiss deepened. His tongue finding mine. My hands sliding up his back under his jacket. The sound he made—quiet, almost a sigh—that vibrated against my lips.
This was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what people meant when they talked about kissing someone and the rest of the world going away. This was the real version. The one we deserved. Two people on a bridge in the middle of nowhere, kissing like they were allowed to.
A dog barked somewhere on the trail.
We pulled apart. Not fast—slow, reluctant, our foreheads resting together for a second before the distance came back.
Footsteps on the trail. Getting closer. A woman's voice calling "Baxter! Come!" The jingle of a collar.
A bark echoed up the trail again and I turned. Before I could—
A golden retriever bounded onto the bridge and launched itself at me—muddy paws on my chest, tongue going for my face, tail whipping hard.
"Whoa—hey—okay—" I stumbled back laughing, catching the dog by the collar. It was wiggling so hard its whole body was wagging, not just the tail. Warm brown eyes. Soaking wet from the creek.
"Oh my god," Alex said, and dropped to his knees immediately. The dog abandoned me and barreled into him, licking his face while Alex scratched behind its ears with both hands. "Hey buddy. Hey. You're perfect. You're the best dog I've ever met."
"Dog lover?" I said.
"Look at this face." The dog was panting, leaning its full weight into Alex's chest. Alex was grinning. He looked up at me while the dog licked at his neck.
Our eyes met.
Him on his knees on the bridge with a golden retriever in his lap, laughing.
Something turned over in my chest. Not desire. Something quieter. The image of a life I hadn't known I wanted until this second—a thrift store, a dog, a Sunday. Something simple, something real, something safe.
"Baxter! Baxter, come!"
A woman's voice from the trail.
The woman rounded the corner onto the bridge. Fifties, fleece vest, hiking boots. She clipped a leash onto the retriever and gave us an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. He's friendly."
"No worries," Alex said. "Great dog."
"Beautiful day," she said.
"Sure is," Alex said looking at me with a smile.
She walked on. Baxter followed, glancing back at us once with his tongue hanging out like he knew exactly what he'd interrupted.
We looked at each other across the bridge.
"Baxter," I said.
"Good dog."
"Terrible timing."
"The worst."
We stood there. The creek running below. The leaves drifting in across the sky. The last of the afternoon light going gold and long.
I wanted to stay. Wanted to stay on this bridge in this town where nobody knew us and kiss him until the sun went down and the stars came out and nobody in the world cared.
But the world cared. It always cared.
"We should head back," Alex said.
"Yeah."
***
The drive home was quiet.
Not bad quiet. Full quiet. The kind of silence that comes after a day where everything important has already been said and the only thing left is to sit with it.
The flannel was warm against my arms. Alex drove with one hand on the wheel and one hand on mine. The radio was off. We didn't need it.
The sun was going down. Late autumn dusk—the sky turning purple at the edges, the trees black silhouettes against the last gold light. The road unwinding south toward Ashford.
I pulled out my phone. Opened the photo.
Two guys on a bridge. The flannel. The grins. The light. Alex leaning into me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The only photo of us that existed. The only proof.
I stared at it for a long time. Then put the phone away.
The closer we got to Ashford, the quieter we got. I could feel it—the walls rebuilding, the performance loading, the distance that campus required settling back over us like weather rolling in. Alex's hand was still on mine but his grip was tighter. Holding on to what was about to end.
The Riverside campus appeared in the distance—coming closer.
Soon, Alex pulled around behind the athletic building. The same spot he'd picked me up that morning. He put the car in park. Left the engine running.
We sat there.
"Today was good," I said.
"Yeah." His voice was rough. "It was."
"Alex."
"Yeah?"
I looked at him. The dashboard light catching his face. His eyes tired and warm and holding something that looked a lot like the thing I wasn't ready to say out loud.
"Thank you," I said.
I looked around—nobody—then leaned in and kissed him quick.
I got out. Leaned back in through the open window. He looked up at me and I wanted to kiss him again but we were back now. Back in the world where kissing could end us.
"See you tomorrow morning," I said.
"Tomorrow morning." He smiled.
I stepped back. He pulled away. The taillights of the BMW disappeared around the corner of the building.
I stood there in the parking lot. Cold air on my face. The flannel warm on my arms.
I pulled out my phone. Looked at the photo one more time.
The best day of my life. Tucked inside a secret nobody else would ever know about.
I pocketed the phone and walked toward my dorm. The performance waiting for me inside those doors. The distance. The lie.
But under the flannel, something warm stayed. Something that didn't care about performances or secrets or the distance between two campuses on opposite sides of a river.
Something real.